


spa treatments & treason

by kirargent



Category: Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types, Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: (if you squint/choose to interpret it that way), Canon Compliant, Gen, Minor Clary Fray/Isabelle Lightwood, Minor Isabelle Lightwood/Meliorn, Minor Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, POV Isabelle, Spa Treatments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 23:58:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6215398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirargent/pseuds/kirargent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Everything just went to Hell in a handbasket, Isabelle.” Magnus's voice is breathy, his hands still poised in the air, everything a performance. “I figured we could use a break.” His mouth curves up. “Now come on, I've scheduled us pedicures.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	spa treatments & treason

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElasticElla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticElla/gifts).



Izzy is filing the last of the reports regarding the Forsaken attack on the Institute one moment—and then the next, she is…not.

Her hand is still poised as if holding a pen, though her fingers are empty. She drops her arm to her lap, blinking.

The Institute has vanished from around her, replaced by walls painted soft green. Isabelle is in a small room furnished with dark wood and soft, white-cushioned chairs. She finds herself seated in one of the chairs, perched on the edge as if she's still sitting at her desk.

But her desk is gone, as is the Institute—and by the Angel, so are her _clothes_. A fluffy white robe is soft against her skin. Her hair is no longer tied back neatly at the nape of her neck, but instead rests loose against her shoulders.

The door to the room opens, and through it strides Magnus Bane, dressed in a robe identical to Isabelle's with his face unusually clean of makeup and glitter.

“Ah,” he says, lifting his hands, fingers curling so that his rings catch the light. “I'm glad to see you've made yourself comfortable.”

Izzy watches him with narrowed eyes, never sure whether to trust this sparkly warlock or be wary of him.

“Where am I?” she asks finally, seeing no reason for immediate alarm. She scans the room anyway, eyes alert for anything sharp within easy reach.

“A mundie spa.” Magnus looks immensely pleased with himself, amusement glittering in his eyes and pulling at his mouth.

Isabelle crosses one leg neatly over the other. “Why?”

“Why?” Magnus repeats. He stills, his head cocked to one side. “Everything just went to Hell in a handbasket, Isabelle.” His voice is breathy, his hands still poised in the air, everything a performance. “I figured we could use a break.” His mouth curves up. “Now come on, I've scheduled us pedicures.”

Still wary, Isabelle folds her arms over her chest but stands and follows him from the room.

  

 

Isabelle selects the brightest shade of neon green polish available, and she's got to admit, having someone work the ache from the arches of her feet while she tips her head back and closes her eyes feels nothing short of heavenly.

If only Magnus would stop sighing forlornly at her side, things would be fabulous.

Frowning, Isabelle lets her head fall to the side, blinking her eyes open to look at Magnus. “Do you need to talk, warlock?” she asks. “Is that really why I'm here?”

Magnus's eyes are large and sad. His mouth is a small pout. “Did you know your brother is engaged?”

Izzy raises an eyebrow. “Of course I did.”

Magnus gives a little nod. “Right. Of course.” He looks away, picking up the bottle of nail polish intended for his toes and examining it. It's garishly sparkly, an explosion of shiny gold.

Isabelle presses her lips together. “It won't last,” she says. She lets her head rest back against the soft recliner, closing her eyes again. She sets her jaw. “I won't let it.”

Magnus giggles lightly, a seriously undignified sound for the High Warlock of Brooklyn. “No,” he says, “I suppose you won't, little Shadowhunter.”

Izzy grits her teeth. “I won't,” she insists. “If I have to take down my own brother to do it, I won't let the Institute take up the practice of torturing innocent Downworlders.”

Magnus doesn't speak for a moment, and Izzy has to resist the urge to peek at him. Then he says, his voice a touch more solemn, “I thank you for that, Isabelle Lightwood.”

Isabelle shrugs. “Do you think I should get my nails done in green to match my toes?” she asks.

 

 

In the end, Izzy leaves her fingernails clear of polish, figuring a violent neon green won't exactly fit with the rest of her Clave-approved appearance.

A quiet mundie girl massages the tension out of Izzy's shoulders, and she resolves that she will thank Magnus for this brief retreat, ulterior motives for bringing her here or not.

She lays face-down on the massage table, and she doesn't allow her thoughts to rest on Alec, or on Meliorn, or Lydia Branwell, or her parents, or Clary, Clary holding Jace, Clary kissing Jace and loving Simon and uniting the Downworlders not for Izzy's sake but for her friend's.

She doesn't think of the wedding soon to be planned, or of the way her family is breaking apart and leaving her marooned alone, or of the long days of modest dresses and paperwork and rule-following ahead of her.

Magnus walks her back to the small room in the spa where she first found herself, unnaturally silent. Izzy tells him she'll nudge Alec his direction, if her brother decides to stop being such a phenomenal dick.

Magnus gives her a rueful smile that makes Izzy think he doesn't think that will happen anytime soon. Izzy sets her mouth and ignores it.

“Thanks,” she says tightly, and he nods to her, bravado a notch off.

She retreats into the private room with her stomach heavy and her feet slow.

Her clothing is folded neatly on a chair. She narrows her eyes, wondering exactly how Magnus transported her underwear here from the Institute.

She slides back into the knee-length dress that looks like something her mother would wear, her skin prickling with unease. She pulls her hair back tightly.

She wiggles her toes before she pulls on her heels, a small smile plucking at the corners of her mouth. Her bright green nails with their delicate pattern of dark leaves feel like a tiny, secret rebellion, and it makes her heart beat a little faster, makes her breath come a little more easily.

If dressing and behaving normally would come at the cost of lack of respect from the Clave she's trying to convince to take her seriously, at least she can wear a Seelie symbol under the cover of her shoes, a reminder of why she's going to dismantle every single outdated tradition of the Clave one by one.

 


End file.
